when i was little, i often had trouble falling asleep, i used to lay awake for what felt like a very long time until finally sleep came; sometimes i sang songs to myself & in summer, i lay awake listening to the birdsong. when the nightingale came to the tree where the brook passed under the rail tracks, i tried to stay awake on purpose not to miss a single note of her song & sometimes i gathered rose petals from the wild roses in the hedges near the brook to sleep on during those nights.
on other nights, i imagined stories; one favourite was to imagine myself living on a small cloud travelling across the sky; i would lie in the soft cloud as if in the shelter of a bed, wanting nothing, light as a feather & seen by no-one, i could look down at the beautiful earth.
nobody can touch me there on the cloud & i am touched by nothing, the wind takes me into any direction the earth's currents move: sea, land, forests, rivers, mountains; the sun throws blankets over me in different hues of gold, amber, flames & the stars, the moon, the vast skies night & day –
i can just watch everything... pass ... even if i want to linger, the cloud moves on, the picture changes, the surface of the earth, around me only softness, the warmth of day & the cold of night; nothing to hold... on to ... it is still up here on my cloud, the sounds are muted, too –
and i sleep... and sleep... wake me up only when the sun shines & the skies are pretty & the roses flower & the nightingale sings (she no longer comes there, and this bird has flown)
i am so tired &
there is going to be rain